Atavism

I washed one of our Ikeal rag rugs today (one or several of our skunk-descended Tribe had used one corner of it as a urinal, and it was generally pretty filthy besides). Going at the thing in the bath with a scrubbing brush, I realised that I probably have some genetically embedded pattern for rag rug washing; certainly, the last time I did so, it was as a child and literally against rocks järven rannalla[¹], as it were.

There’s something strangely satisfying about whacking a rug, watching the soiled water running away like the promises of a politician.

[¹] on the lake shore, to save your looking it up, in the remote chance anyone is interested and can’t read Finnish